


Seduction of the Not-So-Innocent

by kat8cha



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Character Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, as is the consent level, so better safe than sorry, the ending is open to interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:58:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is commissioned for a painting of Eros. In the search for inspiration he finds a beautiful young man in the wrong part of town. Inspiration becomes obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seduction of the Not-So-Innocent

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU SAW THE ORIGINAL POSTING I apologize i C/Ped the wrong thing.
> 
> Written [for a prompt at the kink meme.](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13024.html?thread=6050016#t6050016)
> 
> I mixed a lot of book Montparnasse imagery in because describing the kid from Sleepy Hollow as anything other than 'young' is weird to me, but I wrote Blagden!Grantaire because that's what I do (currently). And it's open ended b/c the original prompter seemed to want Grantaire's death.

He paints only when necessity dictates. It isn’t that he does not enjoy painting, in fact he loves to paint and that is why he does not. Standing before the easel with nothing but the inspiration of Paris, Enjolras or the bottle drives his paintings to darkness and disaster. He refuses to waste both paint and canvas on that and instead he fills his sketch pad, darkens the paper with charcoal, blackens his fingers with excess of heart. Commissions are yet another matter, however, for they put money in his pocket which he uses to buy the drink that he so desperately craves. 

He has patrons, although he hates to call them that, and they are all the more generous when he attends on their whims. So when Michel had requested a painting of Eros for a generous sum Grantaire had not been able to let the offer pass by. The money would keep him in food, drink and housing for months… if he was careful. And if Michel (not a lord, no, but one of those hopelessly bourgeois that Enjolras had no doubt been raised by and despised) liked the painting he would perhaps add on a bonus once he had received it.

That did however leave Grantaire with the question of a muse. Enjolras would be perfect for Eros, beautiful and untouchable at once with a body that many would die and kill for. But no, Enjolras was Apollo and also he would be unwilling to model for Grantaire. The idea of Enjolras lounging in his studio, perhaps on the well-worn chaise he often draped models across, or standing as if pronouncing, filled Grantaire with emotion and his fingers burned through three sticks of charcoal before the dreams had left him and the alcohol overwhelmed him.

He asks anyway, at the next meeting.

“Enjolras, a word if you would.” Enjolras does not willingly break off from Combeferre but the bespectacled man gifts Grantaire with a small nod and pushes their fearless leader in his direction. Grantaire has restrained himself that night, not willing to incite Enjolras’ displeasure when he had a request.

“Did you need something, Grantaire?” While it is clear that his words are forced, as is his expression of polite interest, Grantaire’s heart leaps in his breast.

“I have been commissioned for a portrait and I was hoping that you would sit for me.” It comes out in a hot rush that leaves Grantaire almost shaking and certainly wishing he had drunk more before or during the meeting; absinthe, wine, ale, anything that would wet his palate and dull his nerves. He can no more look away from Enjolras’ face than any man could ignore Medusa’s and he is similarly frozen as he watches the flicker of emotions. He cannot name them all for Enjolras’ face despite being an object of his study is a mystery as well. “It would-”

“I do not have the time for that.” Enjolras cuts him off coldly. “And your time would be better spent-” There is a rousing cheer from the other side of the room and Enjolras turns to look, Grantaire takes the chance to slip away from him. Not much later he has a bottle of wine held in one hand and the edges of the world have finally begun to blur. Later, once Les Amis have dispersed, Grantaire wanders the streets of Paris. While they are a theatre to young Gavroche the streets of the city are no less a home to Grantaire than the Musain. He finds a fellow brother on every corner, a sister in each café, bottles and money exchange hands and there is always music to be sung or a story to be told. 

Still, there are places where even he should not go at night. The alley the gorgeous young man stands in is one of them and Grantaire stops, backlit in an open door, laughter and light spill out onto the street but do not even reach the tips of the young man’s shoes. It is only starlight and moon shine that illuminate him. His top hat and shoes glittered in the dark of the night, his clothes appeared perfectly tailored and dark, to suit the night time light. He was sin and death, alluring but terrifying. His legs were long, his waist slender and his chest robust, a handsome young man that was unmistakably a man despite the feminine bloom of his hips. Grantaire, drunken as he was, was struck in that moment by the inescapable knowledge.

He had found his Eros.

For one brief, fleeting moment, the young man (younger than Grantaire by years, younger than Enjolras perhaps as well) met Grantaire’s eyes. His face was young, charming and clean shaven except for muttonchops that pointed to his lips like a street sign. 

Grantaire was pushed out of the doorframe and into the street by two men coming out behind him; he stumbled and barely kept from falling. When he looked up from the cobblestones Eros was gone.

But it did not matter; the image would burn in his mind for days.

Or, as he found the next morning as the sun climbed the horizon and the mystery of the night was swept away, only a few hours. He could not quite capture the young man he had seen yet. No sketch proved sufficient, while the shadows of last night had been erotic and enchanting in the light of day they were frustrating. Had his nose been shaped like this or like that? The color of his eyes, what were they? And indeed, what about the frame of his face? The clothes mattered naught for it was the style of Greece that he had been charged to create and those seemed to be the only things Grantaire could focus on. The dark cloth, the high class cut, and the lack of tri-color pin. Desire haunted him and disappointment hung about him like a cloud. In frustration Grantaire ground his stick of charcoal out on the face of his new god and fetched a wine bottle.

He could substitute, of course, allow passion to flow through him and allow the inspiration from last night to mix with his passion for Enjolras. But it would produce a picture that would be… wrong, and Grantaire knew it.

He would just have to go back to the bar of the night before and find the young man. Early evening the clientele is different, not as rambunctious as they are once the wine starts flowing. Grantaire does not wish to alarm anyone with frequent trips outside so he limits himself. Still, he can tell by the time everyone else is drowning in drunken frivolity and Grantaire is still mostly sober that there are suspicions. He quickly drinks up and finds a game of dominos to join.

When he spills out onto the streets this time it is in a group. A rowdy, noisy, singing group, who he is intertwined with, his elbows locked with someone else and an arm thrown over his shoulders. Later he will not be able to remember what songs it is they sung. Drinking songs, of course, because what else does one sing while drunk? But he will remember the sight of his quarry, this time lit properly by the light of the bar. He is beautiful. Not like Enjolras but not _unlike_ Enjolras either. It is the beauty of the gods, the beauty of the indescribable, it is dark flashing eyes and kissable lips turned up in a smirk, in a chin with a small dimple and curling locks that barely escape the cover of his top hat. 

Hours later Grantaire lies on his floor and attempts to remember the scent of the man’s pomade.

The painting goes better that day, as he draws Eros caught by Psyche. Psyche will feature little in this art, little as Michel’s lust for girls is, but Eros… he is dark and light, the erotic monster. Grantaire wonders how his muse would feel to see himself captured such.

Mayhap he will ask.

Grantaire cannot let the idea leave him; it flits around him like a moth through the day and the meeting at the Musain. He is once again strangely silent during Enjolras’ speeches and finds himself strangely distant when speaking with Joly and Couryfac. There is worry in his friends’ faces but he allays it by mentioning that he is working on a piece. They know how strange he gets when he paints, how sometimes he even forgets to drink. 

Back to the bar again, already warm from the drink and not truly thirsty but hungry instead, hungry for yet another glimpse of the god of desire.

\--

It goes well for a fortnight and while most nights Grantaire catches no more than a snippet of his dark god and some nights he catches no sight of the man at all he is happy. He is painting, for once, with a fervor that cannot be denied, he is drinking less as well due to the lack of time. Could he drink with a paintbrush overflowing with color in one hand? Yes, but it would be neither the safest nor the most lucrative option. His drinking is consigned to the night, to the meetings at the Musain here he stares into the distance as Enjolras’ fervor going in one ear and out the other and he smiles and chats idly with his friends, and to the bar where he craves not the green fairy nor the sweet taste of French grapes but the sight of Eros silhouetted in the moonlight.

It goes well which is why Grantaire should have expected the dark turn that it all would take. For he is a cynic, is he not? And as such should not expect his life to end in anything more than shambles. But he is so wrapped up in completing his work and in stalking Eros that he does not realize he in turn is being stalked. He makes it back to his apartment before he is pinned down.

The knife against his throat is sharp and the pressure insistent, Grantaire has no doubt that it has already drawn blood as the slight dampness and sticky sensation cannot all be sweat. The eyes that stare into his own are familiar, and how could they not be? While he has only seen them twice in truth he sees them nightly in his dreams and has sketched them more times than he can count. They stare out at him from his painting, captured as dark and lustrous in that medium as they are in life, although they are far less calculating on canvas. “Why have you been following me?” His dark god asks, dangerous body pressed against his own. Grantaire is thoroughly pinned, one wrist trapped between their bodies, one pinned by Eros’ grip. Even if he was not trapped between the wall and his attacker’s bulk he is not sure he would be able to move anyway.

“Eros speaks!” Is sadly the first words that trip themselves over Grantaire’s utterly idiotic drunken tongue. The knife at his neck slips, no, does not slip, slides purposefully and Grantaire knows it would take less than nothing for this young man to slit his throat. He is dangerous indeed.

It is far more attractive than it should be.

“Ah, I am,” Grantaire fumbles for words and Eros’ stare has gained a spark of amusement, perhaps even frivolity, “I am a painter, monsieur, and you have been my muse.” One fine dark eyebrow raised, in amusement or question Grantaire could not say, and the whole story came tumbling out. The commission, his need for artistic inspiration, seeing him in the alley that night and being struck through with the need to paint him. He compresses it as much as he can and it is not a long tale but Grantaire’s wagging tongue is dry by the end of it. “And so I have been returning every night in hopes to catch sight of you.”

Eros’ eyes are definitely glittering in amusement now. He releases his grip on Grantaire’s wrist (it will bruise) and his bloodied knife disappears up his sleeve. “Show me.”

Grantaire presses a handkerchief, already stained with wine, to his neck and stares incomprehensively. Show him what? “Excuse me?”

Ah, Eros is a devilish man, Grantaire knows if he lives through the night that any drawing of Dionysus will reflect this man, that all of Gratnaire’s satyrs will wear Eros’ face. “Your painting.” Eros’ licks his plump lips and smiles sharply. “I would like to see it.” 

Grantaire nods dumbly and then, stumbling, leads the way to his rooms. When the door closes behind him he wonders if this is how the ancient Christians felt when the door to the lion pit was opened. Although Eros’ is not quite a lion, he is a sleeker, slimmer hunter. One who lays in wait and does not roar out a warning beforehand. “It is… it is on the easel, as you can see.” Grantaire leads Eros, and he does not know the man’s name and part of him never wishes to, to the painting. “It is not yet finished.” 

He wishes to say more, perhaps, but he finds that there is nothing to say when muse and art first meet. Eros’ studies the painting dutifully and Grantaire finds the dryness of his tongue spreading to his throat. He dabs at his neck with the kerchief but is unsurprised to find that his cut has already closed. Eros’ is clearly quite good with a knife.

It sends a shiver down his spine.

“Who commissioned this from you?” Dark eyes and plump lips ask, and Grantaire had not noticed when Eros had doffed his hat but his hair, curly as Grantaire’s own, is much better maintained. The pomade he uses to keep his wild curls under control must be part of the subtle perfume that encompasses him, Grantaire fights the need for deeper breaths.

“Ah, Michel,” Grantaire waves a hand vaguely, he rarely recalls details of his clients. He certainly cannot remember the first name of the older man however he is aware of the man’s address. “He lives on the Boulevard des Capucines.” Grantaire shrugs, he does not know why he volunteers the information only that Eros seems displeased by the lack of it. “A good man…”

Eros’ grin is not the grin of a good man. “And do I appear to be a good man?” He takes one step towards Grantaire and Grantaire, unsure, takes one step back. It is a dance that he has not taken part of in quite a while, one in which he is familiar, and while it has been a long time since he hungered for naught but Apollo it has been quite a bit longer since he played the role of Daphne. “Artist.” 

“Grantaire,” Grantaire meets the wall of his flat with a ‘thunk’, “Julien Grantaire.” 

“Montparnasse.” Eros offers in return and then he is pinning Grantaire against the wall once again. There is a difference between what had happened in the hall and what is beginning now, however, and it is tied up in intent and the hardness that presses against Grantaire’s thigh. Montparnasse offers nothing more than his last name and Grantaire does not wish for more because they are kissing, then, and hurried fingers are struggling with the unwilling layers of their clothes. Grantaire’s cravat does not get removed with his waistcoat and shirt and Montparnasse uses it as a leash to pull Grantaire into long kisses and hold him while Grantaire scrambles to catch up. He catches his hand on something sharp in the undressing of Montparnasse and his palm comes away bloody but even then he does not care.

Two pairs of shoes, one mirror-like the other scuffed and dirty lead the way to the bed. Trousers follow and finally they are in the buff, naked and scrambling. Grantaire leaves red hand prints on Montparnasse’s moon pale skin, Montparnasse returns the favor with stinging kisses down his neck and over his shoulders. One leg is lifted, propped on Montparnasse’s shoulder and the stinging kisses lead down Grantaire’s chest to his sadly neglected phallus, as striking as any Roman column, or at least as hard. The kisses turn sloppy now, wet and sucking and Grantaire will never have enough of this young man’s mouth, he is sure in that moment that he will become addicted to it. Grantaire grips Montparnasse’s shoulder with one hand and his own cravat with the other, unwilling to urge him on with a more forceful grip.

Orgasm brings an explosion of sparks behind his eyelids and lassitude following but Grantaire is not one to leave his partner hanging. Especially when one is as beautiful and ferocious as this one. Montparnasse props himself up on Grantaire’s mattress and grins, sharkline, a spot of Grantaire’s seed glistens at the edge of his mouth that Grantaire fails to point out. “Use your hand,” when Grantaire lifts the uninjured one the smile fades, “the other one.”

It hurts to stroke Montparnasse with a wound not yet healed. The blood does not drip but instead smears across his penis, the cut stings when the salty fluid that drips from Montparnasse’s slit mixes with the blood. Grantaire strokes until Eros’ writhes and then draws Grantaire forward with a grip on his curls that makes him tremble. It takes little more before the god is relieved and Grantaire is released, semen paints his cheeks decadently. They linger there, recovering their strength, before Grantaire is pushed to the side and Eros’ begins to reassemble his armor.

When Grantaire falls asleep Montparnasse is letting himself out.

\--

It takes two more days before Grantaire is willing to call his work complete and he takes it to Michel’s residence post haste. The older man is pleased enough with the painting, although he comments on the darkness of the muse and how unlike Grantaire it is, he pays as well as Grantaire was promised but gives little more. Grantaire proceeds to spend more than he should on wine at the haunt where he first spotted Montparnasse. His dark god does not appear there, not that night nor for the rest of the month. Grantaire gradually returns to his more familiar haunts and they are happy to welcome him back, especially as he has cash both in hand and pocket.

He is awoken in the dim light of dawn, when the lamps are still lit and the people have not yet awoken, by a hand covering both nose and mouth. His shout is muffled, although even if it was not it is unlikely his neighbors would come to his aid, but the grip is not so tight as to deprive him of all the air. Which he is grateful for because he is no morning person and depriving him of breath would not help. Montparnasse grins down at him, a dark shadow against the early light of day. “Do not fret, Julien.” Montparnasse motions with his head towards the wall. Grantaire obediently turns to look and cannot truly say he is surprised to see Seduction leaning against the wall. “I won’t hurt you.”

His smile is as sharp as his knife.


End file.
